A morte numa família holandesa

Em Portugal, junta-se a família, os médicos tratam dos cuidados paliativos, um padre dá a confissão, comunhão e a extrema unção; os últimos momentos vida de uma pessoa são de companhia e de solidariedade da família — nem sempre, mas quase sempre — até ao último minuto possível. Na Holanda, é assim:

«5.30pm: Dad is bent over the toilet bowl with a brush in his hand and a scowl on his face. I walk up to him. “Shall I give you a hand?” Dad begins to snigger, abandoning any attempt to make sense of the situation. We stand shoulder to shoulder with our backs to Mum, who paces around the landing with a newly fitted catheter in her hand.

The catheter has been put in by nurse Marianne to enable our GP, who will be with us in half an hour, to give Mum a lethal injection. But instead of having a moment of peace with us, as Marianne suggested, Mum demands that we clean the toilets. Both upstairs and downstairs.

My brother, Maarten, is sitting on the edge of the bath, staring out of the bathroom window.

“Imagine,” he mutters. “Her last hour, spent like this.”

This is the Netherlands, where voluntary euthanasia is permitted, as well as physician-assisted suicide. This is the day my mother has chosen to die, and the toilets need to be spotless.»

Na hora que antecede o seu suicídio, mandou toda a gente limpar as retretes; foi esta a sua última vontade, numa sociedade sem religião e cada vez mais sem alma. Morte sem dignidade.